Eye for an Eye

to Gilchrist’s surprise, he had hit eighty-nine.
    At the bar, Fast Eddy was holding court over three young women. From the sparkle in his eyes, Gilchrist suspected that one, if not all, would fall victim to his infamous charm. ‘A double and a half-pint, when you’ve got a minute, Eddy.’
    ‘Here,’ said one of the women, ‘aren’t you that Detective Inspector Wotsit on the telly?’
    ‘That’s him, ladies,’ chirped Fast Eddy. ‘And let me tell you that a finer detective inspector has never set foot in these premises.’
    A shoulder nudged Gilchrist. ‘Well, love, you’re much better looking in the flesh.’
    ‘Yeah, but what’s he like in the buff?’
    The three of them burst into laughter and slapped their hands on their knees like a choreographed circus act.
    Gilchrist smiled in response as he picked up Old Willie’s order and, turning from the bar, almost bumped into Maggie Hendren, one of Fast Eddy’s bar staff.
    ‘Oops,’ he said, as he swayed the drinks to safety.
    ‘Always in a hurry,’ she snapped, with a flash from her eyes that Gilchrist had trouble interpreting. He followed her angry glance into the corner, where he noticed a dark-haired woman he had never seen before eyeing him through a fog of smoke. She tilted her head and exhaled with a twist of her mouth that he could have mistaken for a smile.
    Back in his seat, Old Willie placed two hands around his whisky glass as if to thwart any attempts to snatch it back.
    ‘So tell me, Willie. What about this and that?’
    Shoulders, too narrow to take the grasp of a comforting hand, shuffled with discomfort. Tight lips moved, as if to speak, and Gilchrist realized the old man was having trouble catching his breath.
    Silent, he waited.
    With a rush of breath, Old Willie tilted his head to the side. ‘Did you know that a certain manager of a certain bank was on the fiddle?’
    ‘Was? That’s past tense, Willie.’
    ‘You’re still as sharp as a razor.’
    ‘Past tense because he’s stopped fiddling? Or because he’s dead?’
    ‘If he’s deid he cannae be fiddling, now, can he?’
    ‘How much?’
    Old Willie tackled his Guinness, mouth twisted against the bitter taste, then said, ‘Rumour has it that this certain bank manager of a certain bank has fiddled about a quarter of a million.’ He offered Gilchrist a black smile. ‘That’s pounds.’
    ‘And where has all this money gone?’
    ‘Here and there.’
    When Old Willie offered nothing more, Gilchrist realized he had no idea where the money had gone, only that it had been fiddled. ‘Does the bank know about the missing money?’ he asked.
    ‘Not yet. But if I was you, I’d watch Sam MacMillan.’
    Gilchrist struggled to keep his surprise hidden. ‘Why do you say that?’
    Old Willie tapped his nose with a bony finger. The nail was long and cracked, the skin paper-thin, almost transparent. If Gilchrist looked hard enough, he could almost see the blood pulse its weak way through the old man’s failing system. Old Willie wiped his lips with the back of his hand and from the way he then eyed his Guinness, Gilchrist knew he had said all he was going to say that day.
    Gilchrist leaned forward, close enough to smell the old man’s odour, a warm sourness that reminded him of milk gone off. ‘Can I give you a lift home, Willie?’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘To save you the walk.’
    ‘On you go, son. If you want to do anything for me, just put another one of these behind the bar.’
    Gilchrist smiled. Old Willie had his priorities right, he supposed. At eighty plus, he was as well sitting in the pub drinking himself into oblivion as sitting at home waiting to die. Gilchrist pushed at his seat. He still had half his Eighty Shilling to drink, and was on the verge of leaving it when Fast Eddy caught his eye.
    Back at the bar he handed over a tenner to cover the rest of Old Willie’s session.
    ‘What’s happening?’ Fast Eddy whispered. ‘You off the case?’
    On the television above the bar, Gilchrist recognized the lecture theatre at Headquarters in Glenrothes. He grimaced as the camera shifted and closed in on Patterson’s pockmarked face.
    ‘That guy’s a wanker,’ said Fast Eddy, and pointed a remote at the screen to turn the volume up.
    ‘... sure that, with the able assistance of Detective Chief Inspector Christian DeFiore of the Scottish Crime Squad, significant progress will be made. We will of course continue to provide full cooperation.’
    The camera shifted